


rivalry?

by loverloverlover



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andreil, M/M, Minyard-Josten Rivalry, Neil gets hurt, Post-Canon, Rivalry, pro exy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-02-01 03:09:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverloverlover/pseuds/loverloverlover
Summary: Andrew and Neil's pro teams play each other for the first time in a while, and, of course, Neil gets hurt.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 45
Kudos: 1040





	rivalry?

_“Well, you know that old saying, ‘Keep your friends close and make out with your enemies.’”_ ― Shae Ross

April had been the longest, most monotonous month of Neil Josten’s life. It'd been over thirty days and nights since Neil Josten had seen Andrew Minyard’s face through anything other than a FaceTime screen. They hadn’t gone this long without seeing one another since Neil’s fifth year at Palmetto State, when Andrew was travelling with his new pro team and Neil had daily practices with the Foxes. Their schedules the past few weeks had been more than hectic—really, they’d been absolute hell—what with the beginning of a new season, all the press they were meant to participate in, and the photo-ops they were meant to endure. There hadn’t been the time for them to sneak away for even a single weekend.

Tonight, their respective professional teams were playing each other in Neil’s domain. This meant that the first time Neil would lay eyes on Andrew’s face would be through the metal cage of an Exy helmet. It wasn’t _exactly_ ideal, but it was enough and Neil wasn’t about to complain.

It was currently the pre-game press run-down, and it was Neil’s turn to sit on his teams’ panel, so here he found himself on a raised stage at a table with fifty or so microphones mounted in front of him. He’d had a modicum of press relations training since he’d joined the pro league—his team managers had insisted and even gone as far as to put it in the _large_ print of his contract after seeing videos of college him—yet he was still notorious for his snarky comments and relationship with the press. The press, on the other hand, was obsessed with _his _relationship with Andrew—or more specifically, their so-called rivalry.

Everything had started during their first pro-game against each other last year—had started with a middle finger Andrew had shot across the court. Neil had sent back a mockingly flirty wave, but no one else saw the affection behind their gestures—only the taunt. Next thing either one of them knew, no one would shut up about it. There were news articles, and ridiculous Buzzfeed quizzes, and overly invasive questions at their respective press conferences. Essentially, their ‘rivalry’ was one of the most talked about topics of Exy and the reporters never failed to bring it up.

The hype leading up to this game in particular was unparalleled, and Neil knew the whole charade amused Andrew to no end—even if the other man would never admit it out loud.

Two of Neil’s teammates, Clark Grobel and Anna Spilski, were seated on either side of him and they groaned—too quietly for the various microphones in front of them to pick it up—as they leaned back in their chairs at the reporters next question.

“Is there anything that you’d like to say to Mr. Minyard before the match today, Mr. Josten?”

Neil smiled his father’s smile—the one the press seemed to enjoy the most and derive a perverted sense of pleasure from—and replied, “He better bring his all because we won’t be holding back.”

“Mr. Grobel!” A young blond reporter called out over the din that followed Neil’s response. “How do you feel, as captain of your team, about the rivalry between your teammate and the Bearcats goalie? Are you worried this game will get too physical—especially considering the last game between your two teams got rather rough?”

“I’m confident enough in Neil’s ability as a player, and in his dedication to this team, to know that he’ll set aside his personal feelings concerning Minyard in order to play the game the way it needs to be played. And all Exy games are ‘rather rough,’ Ma’am. It’s a violent game, but I have no worries, no.”

.:..:.

Since they were playing on Neil’s home court, their lineup was called first. He didn’t think he would ever get used to the roar of the crowd—the sheer volume they managed to create—as he stepped out onto a professional Exy court. Neil took his starting position at the half court line, the rest of his team in their spots behind him, and waited for the announcer to call the away teams’ roster. He was itching to hear his partner’s name over the loud speakers—to get his first glimpse of Andrew since they’d said their lengthy goodbye in the parking garage of Neil’s apartment complex a month prior.

“Number seven, goalie Andrew Minyard!” the announcer said over the loudspeaker. Andrew’s goalie pads covered all of his body—hiding his true proportions—but his gait was achingly familiar and the sight of him sent a rush of relief through Neil’s chest. Andrew was home to him, and simply seeing him in person reminded Neil of late nights and cigarettes and keys.

Instead of walking towards his position in goal—which Neil hadn’t at all expected him to do—Andrew headed straight for him. Neil stood up straighter, liking the small few inches of height he had on Andrew, when Andrew came to a stop in front of him. Neil let loose a shallow breath when Andrew’s fingers tangled in the metal of his helmet. Andrew pulled him close and bumped their helmeted foreheads together, the gesture achingly soft; Neil barely registered the crowd’s increase in sound, too focused on resisting the urge to place his hands upon Andrew’s biceps.

“I missed you,” Neil said, soft enough for only Andrew to hear.

They stood in silence for the length of four heartbeats, and Neil knew it was ridiculous—not to mention, extremely unlikely—but he could swear he inhaled the alluring scent of Andrew’s pine and mint aftershave.

“Missed you too, junkie,” Andrew replied before giving Neil’s head a push and stalking off, finally, to his goal.

“The fuck he want?” Anna yelled from her dealer position behind him.

“Nothing!” Neil yelled back. “Just trying to rile me before the serve!”

“You good?” Clark asked from his right. Neil liked Clark. He was a good captain, and his personality reminded Neil fondly of Alison Reynolds—all boisterous energy and unflappable confidence.

“Never been better.” Neil was grinning with the knowledge that he was telling the truth.

The game began with an intensity that Neil always relished in, but by the end of the first half, it was borderline vicious and had definitely lost its charm. Andrew had played the first twenty minutes of the first half, and he had promptly shut Neil out completely, all with a grin on his face—though Clark had managed to sneak one-point past. This wasn’t for lack of trying on Neil’s part, Andrew just knew him and his playing style too well. Once Andrew was subbed out though, Neil’s team began to really wrack up the points and they managed to be two points ahead going into the second half.

Neil was sore all over. His thigh was throbbing, and he was almost positive that his shoulder was going to need a proper icing before he left the stadium tonight. The second half of the game broke down even quicker than the first—when Andrew went back on the court towards the end of the game, Neil’s team was only ahead by one measly point. Neil’s backliner mark was brutal, and the other man had more than a whole foot of height on Neil. That in and of itself made Neil’s job a challenge, but the man also wasn’t shy about his extreme dislike for Neil. The backliner made this hatred obvious through vicious—borderline illegal—checks and tripping Neil up every chance had.

Neil’s silence in response to his frankly uncreative taunts was very obviously starting to grate on the backliner’s patience, and Neil knew what was coming next—loath as he was to prepare for it. The next time Neil snagged the ball, he was closer to the wall than he would’ve liked—backing himself into a literal corner. His mark took full advantage of this opportunity, and even though Neil attempted to brace himself, he was crushed against the boards—his breath leaving his lungs in a solid _whoosh._

Black spots danced across Neil’s vision as he collapsed to his hands and knees, trying desperately to draw breath into his lungs. There was a solid and steady throbbing taking up residence in his ribs, and Neil _knew_ they were bruised.

_Fuck, this hurt. _

At long last, he managed to draw a stilted and painfully ragged breath into his lungs, and he raised his hand to signal the refs that he couldn’t go on. Two of his teammates came over to help him hobble off the court, and Neil managed to turn his head towards Andrew. No one else would catch what came next, but as Neil had had ample opportunities to study the lines of Andrew’s body, he knew what to look for. At Neil’s small nod of reassurance that he was _fine_ (he could just see Matt and Nicky’s pained expressions), he watched some of the tension drain from Andrew’s shoulders.

There were only five minutes left in the game, so instead of checking out his injuries on the bench like Neil usually insisted on, his team doctor shuffled him into the locker room to examine him. Neil was used to this part—the check-ups and the stern talking to where he’s told to take it easy that he rarely listened to. The doc strapped up some ice to his ribs and his shoulder before leaving Neil to sit in the examination room while the final minutes of the game ticked away.

The cheers emanating from the locker room a few minutes later clued him in on the fact that they had won the game. After the doctor came back and told him was could leave—Abby would be proud he had even waited for the MD to return, which was a big step up from his college days—Neil joined his teammates in the showers.

Soon, Neil was toweling off and gingerly pulling on his slacks and button down, when all he wanted was his work sweats and one of Andrew’s soft t-shirts. But rules were rules, and a suit was required for potential after-game photo-ops. He collapsed on the bench in from of his locker—which was really more of a fancy wooden cubby—and ran a hand through his damp hair, only to wince as the movement pulled on his sore muscles. Neil knew then that buttoning up his oxford was going to take a Herculean effort, so he let it be and went to check his phone for any updates from Andrew and the usual post-game congratulations from the old Foxes group-chat.

Just as he was powering on his phone, there was a large influx of noise from the direction of the exit to the hallway, and Neil looked up. There was a usual amount of post-game noise that was to be expected, but this was different. Clark briefly caught his eye from across the room just before, in a flurry of movement, the door flew open and Andrew shouldered his way past the security guard in the hallway. The guard reached quickly for Andrew’s arm to haul him back out of the room, but Neil knew that was a good way for the guard to lose a limb.

“It’s fine, leave him,” Neil called out. Clark looked ready to start a fight on Neil’s behalf, so Neil added, “No, Clark. He can stay.”

As Andrew stalked towards him, dodging and ignoring Neil’s dumbstruck teammates, he snarled out a low, “You idiot.”

At Andrew’s tone, Clark stepped between them and planted his feet. Neil just casually pushed his teammate out of the way, though, and smirked at his fuming partner.

“What percent am I at now?” Neil asked, a shit-eating grin taking over his expression—a real one, not his father’s menacing smirk.

“230%”

“Oh, but that’s an improvement!” Neil smiled and tilted his head to the side. “I was at 250% when I brought home Sir two months ago.”

Andrew didn’t respond and it gave Neil a chance to just look at him. He was in his dress clothes too; his pale blue shirt was fitted across his shoulders and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was also wearing the black armbands that Neil had gotten him last Christmas—the ones with the red stitching that had reminded Neil of the leather seats in Andrew’s Maserati. Andrew was freshly showered as well, so when he shook his head and dropped to a knee in front of Neil, Neil got a whiff of Andrew’s sandalwood shampoo—an actual whiff this time, not an imaginative one brought on by the desire to be close him. Andrew pulled open Neil’s dress shirt to analyze the damage. Neil’s torso was already a mottled mess of purple bruises and Andrew’s expression twisted into a mask of rage.

“I’ll kill him,” Andrew muttered.

“And they say _I’m_ the PR nightmare,” Neil droned. “You can’t go off and kill your teammates, ‘Drew.”

“Fuck off,” Andrew said venomously. Neil knew that the anger simmering behind Andrew’s eyes wasn’t directed at him—and that Andrew likely wasn’t as angry as he let on, rather worried. His teammates didn’t know any better, though.

“Hey, back off Minyard!” Anna yelled. “What the hell are you doing in here anyway?”

“Obviously, I’m checking on the _idiot_ who let himself get pinned to the wall by a six-one backliner who’s got at least a hundred pounds on him,” Andrew answered sardonically.

“It’s not my fault,” Neil muttered, giving up—again—on trying to button his shirt when when the action pulled painfully on his muscles. Andrew batted his hands out of the way and did the buttons up quickly and without any fanfare.

“It’s mostly your fault,” Neil’s coach said, appearing in the doorway from his office and crossing his arms. He nodded at Andrew in greeting. “Minyard.”

Andrew tapped two fingers to his temple in greeting.

Neil huffed and bent to tie up his dress shoes only to take a sharp intake of breath and clutch his side—his ribs protesting again. Andrew looked at him sternly and Neil sat back and let Andrew wordlessly do up his laces. Andrew then grabbed Neil’s things from his locker and shoved them into his own bag—leaving Neil’s empty duffle in the bottom cubby—before levering Neil to his feet and gently smoothing down the collar of Neil’s shirt. It must have been this detail, or the fact that Andrew was being his usual (secretly) caring self, that made everything click in Neil’s captain's mind.

“You’re together,” Clark said dumbly. “Like, in a relationship.”

“Yes,” Neil replied the same time Andrew deadpanned, “No.”

Neil glared half-heartedly at Andrew, but it turned into a small grin when he saw the amusement in Andrew’s eyes.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” Clark asked. “And why do you hype up the rivalry so much if you’re not actually rivals?”

“Because it’s amusing,” Andrew answered, shouldering his duffle and heading towards the exit. “Let the mindless vultures think we hate each other—they’re not far off.”

“Rude,” Neil responded, following Andrew out of the locker room and leaving his dumbstruck team members behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> grammatical errors?? i know her. i also didn't know how to end this so... i just stopped writing lol
> 
> this is my first ever fic for this fandom and after reading other people's storys for years i decided to write one of my own.
> 
> hope you enjoyed and thank you so so much for reading!! :)  
____
> 
> 6/14/20 update: so i've rewritten this and added a few things--nothing crazy just some descriptors and such. i'm still well acquainted with gramatical errors lol
> 
> 11/11/19 update: ummm???? all of you are amazing?? and i love each and every one of you :') thanks so much for reading and commenting and leaving me kudos. i may pass out from all this excitement.


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